Out of Ashes
by MorgaRoths
Summary: Two years after the explosion, a 'new face' comes after Durant. Set in a current timeframe. Follows the TV pilot beginning, with personal twists.
1. Chapter 1

1

Gail stepped out of the cab, her eyes looking slowly over the mess. The policeman at the tape line hadn't been kidding. It was awful.

On a sudden urge, he checked her cell phone, the time stamps on the texts she'd just gotten from Julie Westlake. The coroner looked at her pityingly, and pressed a hand to the back door of his van. Even if he would have let her, she wouldn't have dared to look at the body.

The fire had been brought down under control, the explosion had happened only twenty minutes before. The pile of burning debris, the ash, was still burning is some places. She could see though the end of the building to the other side where a new sign was going up for rental boats.

It would happen just as she came back home.

She turned to the officer who had walked up beside her. "You didn't find another body?"

He shook his head, and seemed uncertain how much more to indicate. Gail just walked away from him and into the mess of a bottom floor, her shoes hissing as she stepped on a hot board. She combed through some of the papers that hadn't been touched, kicked over a pile of charred wood, half hoping she would find something to make sense of. A fireman had followed her in, and cleared his throat.

"Far as we can see, a lighter got too close to some of the chemicals."

"But, they didn't smoke."

"It's a lab; maybe they needed it for an experiment."

She knew he meant well, but she wanted desperately to hit someone until they bled. Instead, she reached down and pulled out a picture that had mostly survived the fire. The frame had protected all except the edges. Drawing in a ragged breath, she broke away the melted back and dropped the glass.

Someone called to the fireman, and he left her to wander the open area. She found a stack of disks, marked with crazy names and numbers. The backup for the research.

Tucking them into a plastic bag that had been in her coat for a year, she dropped them and the photo inside and rummaged, hoping for a few more keepsakes. She found a file that had been seared, but the main body remained intact. A few more papers, discs, and another photo. It was Peyton and Julie's wedding picture. They were grinning hugely from behind an iron railing strung with ribbon and flowers. Julie still had that horrible perm, but it worked under the veil.

Turning around to look at the embers of the building, Gail measured up the remains of her parents' lives.

She began chanting to herself her mantra for the year: _"__I'm seventeen, I can handle it. I'm Seventeen, I can handle it."_


	2. Chapter 2

2

The investigators had spent the past year trying to convince Gail Westlake that there was nothing else to find. It was unfortunate, but her parents had died while working. A mistake, an accident, the end.

She refused to accept it. The synthetic skin was too important to her Dad to take risks of any kind. Her Mom had been too vigilant to let him make an oversight. It didn't add up.

Somehow they let her keep it open for nearly twelve months before slamming the door shut. They need the money and manpower elsewhere.

During the initial investigation, a cop, only a few years older than she was caught her in the hallway, and whispered, "I'm not supposed to say anything, and I can't do anything about this. But there's talk that a guy named Robert G. Durant was there. I don't know why, but if he was there, he'd have been involved. Don't let his business man persona fool you. He likes to bake pies and then stick his fingers in them."

He relaxed a little. "I really am sorry about your folks, and if there's something I can do, let me know. Just don't tell anyone I told you. And don't tick him off if you ever do meet him. I don't want to scrape you off the pavement."

At least it gave her a name, something to look at after everyone said there was nothing more to it. It was probably the most comforting thing anyone had done for her during the whole ordeal.

The cop's name was Benny Prickles, a fact no one let him forget. His girlfriend was a dispatcher named Marcy. They took the shell-shocked Westlake girl under their scrawny but welcoming wings. She spent hours talking to them (or listening to them) while helping Marcy convert files from paper to computers. It was there she saw what Benny meant about Durant. He cropped up far too often to be an innocent bystander.

How he connected to her parents, she didn't ask, and never saw. Somehow it seemed a random event, particularly in view of how he normally appeared.

Over the course of time, she was hired by the police to do odd jobs around the building. Gail often suspected Benny of hinting to his superiors that she needed the work and it would help her move on. Besides, she had lab experience; she could help downstairs, right?

She owed Benny, if that were the case. It had helped to keep her from going batty for the next year and a half.

Her mind was jerked rudely back to the present by a shout from the lab tech behind her, slapping at an intern. "You think that's anyway to mix that junk? That's why the sticks are there, numbskull."

Henrietta turned brown eyes flashing from an equally brown face on Gail. "You're done. Get out."

Gail smiled, and left the building. It would do no good arguing with the giant woman. She hailed a cab and went to her parents' grave.

Sitting with her back against the warm rock, she closed her bright blue eyes, and relaxed a little. "I've tried, Mom. Really tried. I guess I've said that? Yeah, thought so. I'm nineteen now, and I hate it. Do you know what an apartment goes for? I'm still looking for one with some privacy. I'd be happy if I could find an upper floor, or back rooms. Most of them are so high I'd have to make double what I do to pay for it alone. How did you and Dad do it?"

The stone had their names, dates of birth and dates of death. Only one urn of ashes had been placed below, only one body had been uncovered. She ran a fingernail inside the carved letters, digging out moss and dirt.

There was no reason to keep coming back, she scolded herself. It was not accomplishing anything beyond reminding her of her loss. Her parents had always told her to live, to move on. Julie especially.

She could remember her mother comforting her after a fake friend had turned coats. Her blonde hair and clear look as she stroked her daughter's arm gently. "Sweetie, it's okay. It won't feel that way for a while, but eventually you'll find a better friend."

Peyton had been leaning on the counter, and raised an eyebrow. "Until then, you'll just have to make do with Mom and me."

Julie shot him a glare, telling him he was not helping. He gave her a face that asked what? Didn't they care enough to be friends?

"Don't let one bad friend ruin your life. Just live it, and let the world be jealous."

Standing, Gail walked around to the other side where she'd had their pictures carved, and nearly fell over a large bundle of yellow roses. She looked for a card or mark of some kind, but there was nothing. They were fresh enough they couldn't have been there for more than a day.

She looked around, but all she could see was a homeless man wrapped in a giant coat moving slowly along behind his shopping cart, head down. Her nearly black hair blew into her face, and she pushed it behind her ears impatiently.

It wasn't the first time she'd found flowers or items on the grave, usually several days after the fact. It was becoming disturbing. It was starting to get dark by then, so she decided to leave.

She returned to the microscopic house she shared with three other girls, all in college. They were into each other's things constantly, including hers. It was only a matter of time before they would have snooped in her parents' things, so she'd put on a show one night as supper, crying hysterically, telling about the last year without them and how she just couldn't face it. Then, with an almost ceremonial resolve, she put everything in a lockbox under the bed. A few sniffles on the anniversary of the Westlakes' death had reinforced the barrier around her memories, and what was left of her father's research was safe. Not that any of them would have knowingly hurt her or revealed something, but it was something she was not willing to risk at that point.

They were in the middle of a Nickolas Sparks marathon when she walked in; each of them had at least two friends there. The kitchen and living room were joined, and every flat surface was being used to hold a girl or a soda pop and chocolate bar. Gail had forgotten it was Friday.

"This is one where someone dies in the end, right?" She quipped on her way through, earning a glare from Chris.

At least she had her room and the bathroom to herself for an hour. She showered, and went the room she shared with Danita. Pulling the box out, Gail chose a disk she hadn't looked at yet. As expected, it didn't play in her laptop any better than the others had. She just didn't have the set up to read it. Putting it away, she looked through the mangled papers again, hoping she could understand just a little more this time around. These readings were usually met with better luck, but it was rapidly getting past her Lone Ranger routine. She needed to find somebody in the same line of work as her father to explain what she was looking at. Preferably someone she could trust to keep their mouth shut.

The sound of shuddering tears cued her to put everything away, and find a pair of PJs that were cleaner than the rest, and crawl into bed.

As she did, a newspaper in the trash caught her eye. Opening it up, she found the racy headline stating "**_Darkman on the Prowl: Who is he targeting now?"_**

The article only took up about three inches of print, with a picture twice that size showing a poorly lit, grainy shot of someone running off. It could have been anyone, of almost any description. It was just a blur on the page.

At the station, the police were getting fed up with the Darkman. He was scaring entire neighborhoods, and a few people were starting to claim he was responsible for any heinous act they happened to witness where there were no suspects. One person claimed they had seen him lift two fully grown men, one in each hand and toss them aside after taunting them with questions.

Other than the fact he was tall and strong, there was no other description. Some of the college friends her roommates brought around claimed he was an alien, or ghost. She'd heard that he was hired muscle, or criminal. Or a criminal trying to make up for his past. But those were just rumors, and if anyone knew anything for certain, they weren't talking.

She set the paper on her nightstand, folded so the article and picture showed. Flicking off the lamp, she eyed the blotch the picture made in the shadowy room. If this Darkman were real, it opened up a world of possibilities.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Gail's eyes snapped open to a squeal from one of her roomies. Chris or Jenna from the sound of it. Danita couldn't sound like a girl to save her life. Rolling out of the quilt, she hung her head between her knees and stretched until her hands touch the floor.

The sound came again, and she pushed her hair out of her face, and wrapped her robe around herself determined that if she had to die, it would be modestly.

Waddling out, she found not an invader, but her three co-renters at the window, bouncing up and down excitedly.

"What's going on? I though you guys were being mauled." She opened the fridge and decided that was not a good idea. It was as barren as the Sahara. What there was had a think growth of fuzz going.

"Look at that guy." They all said in unison. Somehow that just made it creepy.

She shuffled over, and saw a motorcycle with a man on it. He was lighting a cigarette, and looking at the houses around him. He pulled out a paper, and checked it against the houses again. He had a long buzz of red-ish hair, and an almost too perfect tan. He was one of those people who seem better than they are. Gail had seen her share at the station over the past year.

With a grunt, she returned to the kitchen to consume a raw pop-tart and a gallon of coffee.

The girls started jabbering, and suddenly fell silent as the bell rang. They stared at each other, and then Danita inched over and opened it. "Yes?"

The Motorcycle Man stood there, smiling charmingly. His eyes roved over the other two girls who had followed her to the door, and the smile wavered uncertainly. "Is there a Miss Gail B. Westlake here?"

Three sets of eyes turned to a slouched figure at the table pushing dark hair back. She stood up and made her way over. "Who are you?" She demanded.

"Cole Madison. I work for the police." He gave her an ID, which she handed back within a few seconds.

Returning to her pitiful breakfast, she looked back at him thoughtfully. "What do you want me for, Mr. Madison?"

He glanced at the other girls uncomfortably. "I…was given your name by Officer Prickles." The usual snickers followed this statement. He shot a look over his shoulder and sat down. "Look, Benny said you have a good nose for stuff that's…off. I got a really weird case, and the department said as long as I hired someone already employed by the police, I could get help. At least come and take a look at what I've got and then decide?"

Shoving the box of pop-tarts over to him, she poured him a cup of coffee. "My usual salary?"

"No, you'll get a sizable bonus. There is a risk factor." He refused the tarts, and swallowed the coffee in three seconds. "Can you come now?"

Eyeing him, Gail could see that he was really unhappy about something. Nodding she stood and waddled back to the bedroom. "Give me twenty minutes."

Gail slid off the motorcycle, not sure if she liked it or not. Her shoulder length hair had been semi-permanently blown back where the helmet had not covered it. Raking it into a ponytail, she followed Cole into an old warehouse, marked as storage for a company. He nodded at the guard and opened a side door, showing that it was a police run facility. There was some equipment, mostly vehicles and computers. Five motorcycles identical to the one outside were parked in a neat row with a couple of cars and a van. There was a gap where another motorized item would go, but it was out for whatever reason. A makeshift kitchen and living area showed that nights could be passed there as well.

Cole started a computer with three letters on the cover; DDO.

"Whatever I show you, never happened. Even if you decide to help and mostly if you don't." She nodded, and sat backwards on a chair to look.

He drew a breath and pulled up a list of names, dates and places. "These are all occurrences with the same factor, mostly built on witness statements. If you want to walk after I tell you what, I won't blame you." He paused and let out the air he'd been holding. "It's Robert Durant. Please don't laugh."

She didn't. Instead she took the laptop and read the list. "That may be the only factor that matters if it can be proven."

The undercover cop took a second to understand what she was saying. "Wait, you're going to help? Really?"

"Yeah, why not? I can do part of it at the station anyway so no one will notice anything."

His face lit up and he took the computer again, pulling up a file of statements. "A lot of these sightings happen in this general area. A few outside, but it helps narrow down places to look. I mean, he's nearly untouchable, that's why I'm pretending to ferret out sources and not him. You do realize what can happen to people who get in his way?" His face fell at that part. She nodded, recalling the wreckage of her former home. Cole went on.

"I have an informant, but he won't agree to come forward. So, whatever we find is up to us to substantiate."

"Sounds fun." Gail recalled the amounts of files in the stations, and shuddered.

"There's another guy, kind of a pain, but he'll help and keep quiet. I'd rather not introduce you to either until the time comes. Just in case."

"I get it already. I'm another snoop." She said impatiently. "What do I do?"

He grinned, and handed her a paper. "Next week, I'll pick you up after work. Just tell them I'm a boyfriend or cousin or something. Mostly, we just walk around trying to see anyone we can take in and question. A lot of street folk and the working class have connections to Durant somehow."

"Follow drugs, money, and so on?"

"Exactly."

Gail grinned back. After being caught in hiatus for so long, it felt good to move.


End file.
